


Memories

by BleedingBishop



Series: A Hogwarts AU [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:44:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2719181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingBishop/pseuds/BleedingBishop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Swearing<br/>Descriptions/Mention of death.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Memories

**Author's Note:**

> Swearing  
> Descriptions/Mention of death.

"Oi! Mycroft!"

No Response.

"Mycroft Holmes!"

"Yes?" Came the reply, echoing slightly behind Greg's back. He span around to see the faint outline of the missing spectre, his blank face peering at the young student with polite interest.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Greg growled, rounding on Mycroft and nearly storming straight through him as Mycroft did not move back - what with him being a ghost and all.

"Well? What, do you enjoy living with these dumb birds, and their shite?"

"I'm Gay." Mycroft said bluntly. Greg's head reared back in confusion, not unlike a horse when confronted with a snake in their path. 

"So?" the ghost pulled himself up with an official air, before stating plainly:

"So living with a 'bird' would be one of the last things I would care to do." he stated sharply, head held high.

"St-Stop trying to make me laugh! I am trying to be angry at you!" Greg stepped back, bowed slightly as he tried to stifle his giggles. The effort was not helped by Mycroft's deep chuckle : a musical baritone that caused dust to fall from the rafters, despite Greg's earlier shouting failing to disturb more than a few specks.

Greg gathered his breath and straightened up, stepping back to give the ghost some space.

"No but seriously Mike-"

"Mycroft." The ghost interrupted sternly.

"Sorry, My-crof-t," Greg carried on, rolling his eyes and putting deliberate emphasis on the C; the T ", but why didn't you come out when I called for you last time? I mean I brought some people-"

Then, Mycroft exploded.

"Exactly! Have you any idea what it is like to be ignored for all your living days, and then forced to be imaginary for teh rest of eternity?"

Mycroft then slowly began to move, legs making pacing movements above the stone floor between the wide open doorway to the Owlery balcony and the pillar behind which the spectre had first revealed himself to Greg.

"To see generations of students pass through this room, chatting and communicating with each other and the outside world through these blasted birds?," He motioned upwards with a careless flick of his wrist ", To remember a time when I could help that second year with coming out to their Mother, or to console a sixth year after they didn't get their OWL's for their NEWT course, or simply congratulate them for being brave enough to go through their sorting? To regret so many things? In my short life? To have to review them again and again in my head because there is no one to tell? Because, again, I do not exist - Because, In this world or the next, I am silenced by bigger forces than me! Have you any idea what it is to be unable to taste food? To cry? Oh, even to punch a fucking wall to take out my frustrations?"

Mycroft then stormed towards Greg, who was by this point frozen in shock at the pure fury the solemn ghost was displaying.

"And then you appear! A boy! Just weird enough to not go to any of the other 3 towers! Everyone goes to the Astronomy tower! The telescopes hidden in the closet on the far left wall make it easy for a wanton student to try and impress another insipid child with some stellar facts! But you! No! You choose to spend a New Years Eve surrounded by stone and owl shite! And then I opened my mouth, and then you knew my name! Someone knew my name! Someone knew I existed! And then the panic set in. What if you would tell about me? What if I would, somehow, be forced from the grounds? You know, boy, I haven't talked to anyone in over 50 years! And sure enough, you return- two rowdy young men in tow, and you expect me to, what? Come out? Smile? Say hello?"  
Mycroft finished his enraged ranting by directing a dark laugh at the open wall of the balcony, the sound immediately made Greg feel disappointed with himself.  
"Merlin, Sometimes I really am glad I threw myself off this blasted tower." he mumbled quietly, before turning away completely and began to float off into the darkened corners of the Owlery.

"S-So your brother... didn't throw you out that window, then?" Greg asked, timid after the emotional outburst he had just been doused in.  
Mycroft, on the other hand, froze. 

"Pardon?" He asked, slowly turning to face the boy once more.

"The papers, back then, said that your little brother and you got into an argument and your brother pushed you out of that window." Greg motioned towards the open doorway that had been their first meeting place. He ran his eyes over the stone arch above the door, as if it would reveal the answer, before he turned back to Mycroft.  
The moonlight was now pouring through Mycroft's ethereal form, the effect causing him to shine slightly in his old uniform. His eyes - while unable to tell what colour they would have been had he not seen a picture of the russet haired, blue eyed head boy in the Daily Prophet article - were wide in shock, arms akimbo at his side.

"No, I threw myself off this tower. I don't know where they even got that story." The ghost said carefully. Greg nodded.

"Yeah, okay. Sorry. I didn't mean to imply anything. I mean, your called Mycroft, right? I think any decent parent would realise 'Sherlock' isn't any better!"

Mycroft's hands flew to his open mouth, trying to trap the gut wrenching howl that was leaving his throat. Greg jumped back in shock, and a fair bit of fear, before he watched Mycroft collapse in on himself, his form falling forward onto the floor and curling around his bowed head.

"Jesus, your little brother killed you." Greg gasped, before he shook himself from his trance and slowly made his way towards the shaking mass of ghostly being.

Mycroft was still groaning quietly when he finally raised his head, after having crouched silently for the past goodness knows how long.

"He-he didn't mean to," he whispered hoarsely to the fagged floor ", He was ten. who means to commit murder when they're ten? No, no it was my fault. I should have raised him better, I, I should have kept a better eye on him. He was right I am a useless brother..." Mycroft buried his head again and returned to his mumbling, of which sounded like prayers for forgiveness.

Greg sat by him uncomfortably. He'd never had to deal with such emotions before, but as he heard the fifth repetition of the prayer, he knew he had to do something.

"How could you have raised him better?" He asked. The prayers ceased instantaneously and Mycroft looked straight into Greg's eyes.

"What?"

"How could you have raised him better?," Greg repeated ",Were your mum and dad ill?"

Mycroft frowned and shook his head.  
"No. Mummy was a genius, a mathematician - very independent. Daddy was a St Mungos Nurse."

"Okay then, so they were more than capable of looking after a child - after all, they raised you! So why did you have to raise him?" Greg asked again, his tone similar to a teacher encouraging a younger student.

"Because it was my responsibility. I was his older brother, the only one who could understand his troubles with being a child genius in a school, magic or not, of average children. I was supposed to help him integrate with normal children." Mycroft replied, his whole countenance reading failure.

"So who taught you? If you were supposed to teach your brother, you must have been taught."

"No. I was told by Mummy that I needed to interact with other children. I was home schooled, you see, growing up in distant villages rarely led to meeting other children. I was always surrounded by adults - back then I was always bored with television, so few channels and nothing that was with the level of a genius. Apart from the news, I was into books and talking to adults, so while I didn't have children to play with, I was contented with what I had. When I was seven, Sherlock was born. And, and I remember holding him and wondering if I was going to have a brother who I could actually teach all I knew. And he was so clever, too. But, he didn't see why he should have to interact with anyone other than me. And, when I was young I didn't see why not - he was only three, he wouldn't have even been able to join Nursery if he were to go to school, so I didn't see the trouble. I just followed him around, trying to keep him from trying to steal Daddy's wand and trying to preform random charms on animals. When I received my letter, I told him that I would write to him all the time, but he just saw it as me abandoning him. I started trying to teach him to be more empathetic to others, but I guess I spoiled him too much, he just, just didn't seem to care than people pulled away from him because of his lack of tact. I tried asking Mummy and Daddy about sending him to a primary school, for gifted children, to try and get him socialising more. Because, while I spent all my time around adults, I spent my time learning how to interact with people - Sherlock wanted none of it. So, I went to Hogwarts, Sherlock went to day school. I sent him letters all the time, but they weren't replied to; he thought I had betrayed him, I guess. I didn't have the chance to make it up to him. I saw him over christmas and the holidays... Well, the few Christmas' I was home - after my third year I stayed. About a month a year for 4 years I saw him. Come holidays I was a stranger in the house." At this, he leaned forward as if to share a secret "If it weren't for Matchie, our house elf, I suspect I wouldn't have even saved a place at my own Birthday."

Greg frowned, his lips pursed in anger.

"So they never even talked to you? When you went to hogwarts your mum and dad didn't even talk about you to your brother?"

"Oh, no, no," Mycroft by now had sat up, arms around his folded legs and head resting delicately on his hands which linked themselves atop his knees. He looked down at the student and earnestly continued ", Daddy sent me my weekly letter, asking how I was, how my lessons were going, were I enjoying them. He even sent me a card signed by his whole ward when I became Prefect."

While Mycroft ruminated on what seemed like one of the few good memories he had, Greg looked round the owlery, At the cold flagged walls and the bare beams across the dark ceiling. 50 years...

"No Letter from Sherlock?"  
Mycroft started slightly, pulled back from wherever his head had drawn itself into.

"No. When I became Head Boy, Daddy sent me another card with Mummy's and Sherlock's signature in. Well, Sherlocks was definitely forged, but I am still not sure about Mummy's... But, Daddy assured me that they were all very proud of me." Even through his smile, Mycroft still couldn't hide the disappointed tone of his deep voice. Greg let the silence continue for a moment, before asking 

"He was ten? How did he get into the Castle?" Mycroft Shrugged.

"To this day I don't know. I was just sending my letter to Daddy when Sherlock appeared. I was surprised, as I suspect many people would have been, to see a ten year old in hogwarts, and one not escorted at that! But yes, he was alive and well, similar to yourself, And being as petulant as a boy could be. He was indignant that I hadn't done something... hadn't made someone do something, I forget the damned details, annoyingly, and then he was yelling, and then I was yelling, before he said I was... was the worst brother he could ever of had, and then I watched him p-push me off and out of the tower."

Mycroft finished his tale with a deep release of breath, as if to symbolise his story now out in the open 

"...Merlin's Beard."

"Yes, Quite," Mycroft laughed quietly ", Not quite the battle to the End or the Lovers Till Death tale that usually follows a Hogwarts ghost."

"No, I mean the fact that your -" 

The sound of footsteps echoing up the time worn stone steps caused the pair to look up at the doorway in shock. Greg was up on his feet and sprinting to the nearest pillar in a moment, taking cover behind it.

"Anybody in here?" Came the grating growls of Argus Filch, long time caretaker and hinderance of Hogwarts Castle.

After what could have easily been ten minuets, Argus retreated back down the steps, mumbling to himself in his peerage. Greg peaked back around to see Mycroft motioning for him to come out from his hiding place.

"Where did you hide?" Whispered Greg.

"I'm a ghost, and an intelligent one at that - We kind of deal in shadows."

"Ah, yeah, right - listen, I better get back before Filch catches me. But thank you for telling me - your story."

"I believe I should be... thanking you...Greg?"

"Shit, yeah, My Name's Greg Lestrade."

"Thank you, Greg Lestrade."

"And thanks to you, Mycroft Holmes."

The pair smiled, one of the few reasons the spectre had to smile in a long while. The boy then turned, and headed towards the staircase.

"Um, Greg?" Mycroft called nervously.

"Yeah?" Greg replied, looking over his shoulder at his new friend.

"While engaging in your gross privacy invasions, you wouldn't... wouldn't have happened to have come across any information as to Sherlock, would you?"

"Uh, No. I only found The Daily Prophet article."

"Oh. Very well. Good Night, Greg."

"Night, Mycroft."

Greg descended the Owlery steps as fast as he could excuse. His head went back to the French newspaper he had read, the story of how the mother and son of the Holmes family had split from her husband, his father, and moved to France. Only a small Article, all in all, detailing how it appeared the grief of losing their eldest child had split the couple from their marriage.  
Originally Greg had believed it to be sad, how such a delightful (According to The Daily Prophet) couple could be split by the manslaughter of one son by another. But, after today?  
Greg was... sort of happy. Not in the standard sense, of course. No One would be happy with a child's life cut short. More in mine of an amputation, a 'For the greater good' happiness that left a bitter taste in his gut but left his head feeling clean.

From the sound of it, it was only Daddy Holmes who had given a damn about Mycroft, and for that he was sorry. Imagine losing your son, on the cusp of Adulthood, and then finding out it was the remain child who had committed the crime, and then being forced to deal with a divorce on top of all that? Alone?

Greg couldn't imagine it.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's the end of this wee little arc.  
> There shall be more, but as I haven't posted in nearly a year, I best get the rest of the 52 parts to this series I haven't finished typing up, done.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around. Or for joining. Or just passing through. But pass through a couple more times you wont regret it.
> 
> (You may but that's your choice)


End file.
